


Epilogue of the 11th Labour

by nonbinaryvision



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Foreshadowing, Gen, Somewhat Meaningful Discussions, The Golden Apples Of Hesperides, Younger Hercules, awkward family situations, i dont know how to tag can you tell, no beta we die like men, yes the characters are interchangeable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23709619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonbinaryvision/pseuds/nonbinaryvision
Summary: Herakles did not seem to have much luck with these labours, and yet, an uncertain dread hung over him at what was to come; he had one last labour left, before Eurystheus would be satisfied, and thus far, it seemed like a miracle that he had not yet died. Eurystheus was trying to kill him, of that he was certain, and given what he had undergone with Hippolyta and Diomedes’ mares, he was close to succeeding.(or - a sad man gets confronted by a relative after picking some apples)
Relationships: Hercules & Athena
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	Epilogue of the 11th Labour

Herakles readjusted his lion skin, and let Atlas’ pleas fall deaf on his ears. He did, admittedly, feel quite bad for abandoning the Titan to his fate, but Eurystheus’ insistence that neither Hydra nor Stable counted in his list of labours (when he had been just _fine_ with them at first, accepted them with a forced smile that looked more like a grimace) was wearing his nerves thin, and it was getting increasingly difficult to be kind, and polite with those he met on his path, as he had been to cousin Helios.

(Helios had laughed, waved a dismissive hand when Herakles had bowed and tried to apologise to his great-great-grand-uncle, or _whatever_ he was to him, for shooting him, said “You’ll only hurt your head trying to figure that out, and anyway, it makes me sound old. No need to say sorry; I understand your frustration, I should be the one saying sorry, in truth”.) 

(Helios, it occured to Herakles, was much more humble than the other Gods and Titans he had met so far. It was refreshing, but struck him as odd; all the stories he’d heard about the Titans said they were cruel, unjust, violent people, not at all like the forgiving, wise Gods of Olympus. He had made a note to spread good tales of his cousin when he returned back to Thebes.) 

He looked down at the golden apples in his kalathos, and wondered if they were the very same of fabled Iðunn, of majestic Asgard. He hoped the Asgardian Gods, who’s names he had heard whispered on the breaths of the strange blond men from the north, would not miss them. 

They seemed… duller, than what he had been expecting, but then again, considering the trip he’d had, his fight with both Kyknos and Nereus, those strange sons of Poseidon, who paid no heed to his explanation of their brotherhood, and the killing of Prometheus’ eagle, it was probably that his expectations has risen to suit the conditions he’d undergone to collect them. He squashed his rage before it could rise, moved his skin so that it covered the kalathos and the faintly glowing apples, and began to walk, doing his best not to think about the long, hard walk that awaited him, a walk that would most likely result in him losing the apples, and spending a year trying to get them back, as it had been with the horses, the cattle and the hind.

Herakles did not seem to have much luck with these labours, and yet, an uncertain dread hung over him at what was to come; he had one last labour left, before Eurystheus would be satisfied, and thus far, it seemed like a miracle that he had not yet died. Eurystheus was trying to kill him, of that he was certain, and given what he had undergone with Hippolyta and Diomedes’ mares, he was close to succeeding.

Things seemed almost calm for all of five minutes, before the presence of something, or _someone_ , lurked just behind him. Herakles had learned to be wary of the scent of divinity and godliness, and learned to fear the burn that comes with it, the stench of the storm and of something indescribably artificial. But this was a presence he recognised, someone he’d met before, someone who’s spirituality seemed to follow him around constantly.

He turned on his heel, sank to his knees in a way befitting of prayer, breath held tight in his chest. He didn’t know why she was here, and he had the sense not to ask; it was not in his place to question the ways of the Gods. “Goddess Athena, of wisdom, war, courage and law, daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus; it is an honour to be in your presence once more”. This was a barefaced lie; looking at her was like looking directly into the sun, bright and painful, the odd way that she moved and even breathed looking completely otherworldly; it made his skin crawl with something fearful and instinctual, brought the metallic taste of blood into his mouth.

To no surprise, she seemed to look right past his facade, but spared him from comment. There were more pressing matters at work here, from the way her keen gaze seemed to rip through the weave of his kalathos right into the flesh of the golden apples.

“You have succeeded,” she spoke, her grey eyes sharper than any blade could be and her tone completely unsurprised. “Good”. Her gaze settled onto him, seemed to slice through muscle and flesh, strip him down and leave him bare for her to examine. “You tire, though”.

There was no question in his sister’s voice (and wasn’t that the strangest thing, for this all-knowing Goddess to be family?), so he felt rather foolish for nodding, but then again, he always felt foolish around her. He didn’t know if there was any other way to feel around her.

“Yes. I am weary from these labours, Divine Athena; I was told only ten, and yet King Eurystheus does not count the killing of the Hydra, nor the cleaning of the Augean Stables, for I got help from nephew Iolaus, and accepted payment for the cleaning of the stables”. He paused. “Or perhaps it was because of the river doing the grunt of the work, Holy Goddess; the King did not specify why. I am now to do one more, and the intensity of this tires me. I do not know if I have the strength to go on”

Her gaze did not let up, and his knees began to ache.

“You have held up the weight of the world, Herakles of Thebes. There is only so much your great strength can take before you too, must tire”. Something that might have been either amusement or pity sparkled in her eye, or perhaps a mix of both. “Is the weight gone, brother? Do you feel it still upon your shoulders?”

This, he was sure, was a trick question. His silence seemed to answer her question, which he suspected she already knew.

“Give me the basket, great hero; the last, and most dangerous of your labours is yet to come”

He rose to his feet, and slid the kalathos out with shaky hands. He couldn’t see the glow of the apples compared to the holy aura surrounding Athena, who’s skin burned from where their hands brushed as he handed it over. Her golden spear seemed to appear in her hand, out of nothing, kalathos held under her arm (had it always looked so threadbare, or was that just how it looked compared to her shimmering sash?) and her expression worn. Herakles was taller, much taller than she was, larger too, but her presence was so that he felt quite small, _insignificant_ next to her.

It seemed like their conversation was at an end, with how she began to rise into the air, the gusts of winds not bothering her in the slightest, hopelessly immaculate. Herakles tried to bite his tongue, but he couldn’t quite help himself from-

“Wait, Celestial One! What do you mean by ‘hero’?”. He wasn’t familiar with the phrase, and he wasn’t sure if he ought to feel pleased or insulted.

She certainly seemed amused at this, turning to face him but not landing; his eyes hurt just looking at her. “It is a new word,” she informed him, her tone almost mocking, or maybe good-natured; it was always hard to tell with her. “It means, _a warrior who lives and dies in pursuit of honour_ , or _one who is noted for courageous acts or nobility of character_. It derives from your name, I believe. More and more ‘heroes’ are appearing, inspired by your tale, it seems”

She fixed him with her unflinching gaze, and had he been a little younger, he probably would have sank to his knees immediately, grovelling. “Is it jealousy that I sense? Or fear for these young men risking their lives because of their idolisation of you?”

Another trick question, he thought, but this one he gave some thought. It was… flattering, in a way, horrifying in another. Herakles had always thought he would be shamed for his labours, jeered at for thinking that that would somehow atone him from the senseless slaughter of his innocent wife, his children who hadn’t even been fully grown.

(Perhaps that was what he thought he deserved.)

“If,” he began, his tone candid. “If my legacy is that I pave the path for a generation of people who wish only to help others, to protect those who cannot protect themselves, to defend people against harm, and strife, and evil, evils like the ones I have faced… then I think that could only be a good thing. If my tale inspires others to attack, to defend, to support and to help, I think I have done enough”

“You don’t know what awaits you,” Athena seemed to sneer at him.

“No,” Herakles agreed. “But if it is a future full of these heroes, then it cannot be all bad”  


**Author's Note:**

> A kalathos is an ancient Greek basket! I didn't check the timespheres to see if it's accurate, and I don't really care too much, so apologies to any historians.
> 
> Within marvel's canon it seems like Hercules/Herakles would have dropped the lion skin by now, but wearing a lion skin that you skinned yourself is pretty fucking metal, so I kept it.


End file.
